If Chance Is Blind
by Tahti
Summary: Perhaps if he kisses her hard enough, if he holds her close enough, maybe he can shatter all pretence of indifference, maybe he can bring her back. S3 Finale FF version for adults. Beware of angst! JATE
1. Chapter 1

_**Disclaimer: **__What I own is hyperactive gutter imagination, with a mind of its own. Hence, I couldn't stop it from taking the below characters and bending them to its liking._

_**Warning**__: M-rated for a reason. Yes, there will be sex._

_**A/N:**__ This piece is for __**Ladywilde**__, who challenged me to write a smut fic based on the last scene of S3 finale. I sensed the tension there too and though I understand the writers' choice to avoid physical contact between Kate and Jack (imo, they were aiming at 'heartbreaking', and the effect was amplified by separation of the characters), the scene could have well gone quite differently…_

_The first 1/5 is basically what happened in the episode, with some embellishment, so you are free to skip it. I just thought it was necessary to set up the events. Also, this is Jack's POV, so I don't know if I'm pleased with the hardcore smut, it wasn't easy to write (I'm not a guy, after all ;)), but I'm clueless about Kate in this scene, have no idea what she could have been thinking. I'm a little self-conscious about the story, it's a bit postmature one, so to have it done and finished with, here I post. :)_

_What you may want to do, is listen to Hard-Fi's "Move On", to get the idea of where the first couple of lines came from. I adore the song._

_Okay, to the story. Hope you'll like it!_

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The planes, they come and go.

Flashing red lights, passing each other faultlessly in the black sky, following invisible nets. North and south, west and east. Sharp angles and no curves.

The people on board too wrapped up in their little separate worlds to ever stop and consider the chance by which their lives thread with each other for those few hours. Brushing shoulders, mumbling apologies and retreating back to their shells.

How many of them have met before, how many will meet again?

_Here and now, the chance has brought us_, he thinks.

He doesn't even remember her from the flight.

But she's here now. The headlights of her car reflected in his rearview mirror.

A lump of suppressed emotion forms down his stinging throat just like every other time when the anticipation of seeing her reached its peak. Like if she's gone already.

She will be. In a few precious moments, he'll be all alone with his madness again.

Defeated, he takes one more swig from the bottle and steps out to meet his destiny.

And there she is, a slender silhouette against the blinding light, like a dark goddess, her perfect frame balanced gracefully on expensive stilettos, something he has never before pictured her wearing. Clad in spotless expensive fabrics, her once wind-swept locks now smoothed and lustrous.

Only several feet away, but she seems so distant, so far, far away from him, her freckles hidden under make-up and the twinkle in her eyes dulled by a precise rim of lilac shadow.

Was it really so long ago he felt her warmth molding to his skin, counted her eyelashes, while she promised him forever?

"Hi," she breaks the silence.

The tension, the despair, melts momentarily to the sound of her voice and he shifts his weight, looking to the ground once and breaking into a diffident smile.

"Hi."

A pang of stupid happiness at her sight gnaws at his heart, deep inside of him.

For a heartbeat, he allows himself hope that she reciprocates it, but when he raises his gaze, there's terror on her face, disgust maybe. Her once endlessly trusting eyes now wary and disbelieving. He lets out a breath, for he knows what she sees, he recognizes that look, the very same that reflects back at him from a mirror. And it breaks him all over again.

"You look terrible," she says, verbalizing his thoughts.

He snorts. "Thanks."

"Why did you call me, Jack?" she asks, and he wishes there were some kind of drugs, some kind of liquor that could dull the pain of her estrangement from him, dull the longing.

Like they could temporarily mute the raw screaming guilt which his entire being has turned into.

"I was hoping that you heard… That maybe you'd go to the funeral…" he says, producing the crumpled paper clipping from his pocket.

She takes it, and her fingertips brush his, so lightly, he could have imagined it, but it sends electric jolts through his body, greedy for the smallest of touches, hyper-receptive to her, who he was once allowed to touch any way he wanted, who used to lean into his touch like a cat, and who is now so careful to keep her distance.

There is no one who wants to touch him anymore, no one who would welcome his embrace, no one who would tell him it's safe and warm and heaven there.

Like she once did.

His mind takes a brief shortcut to an odd encounter with a hooker, and how unsatisfying, how _not enough_ it was, how he couldn't get her, Kate, out of his mind. And how low he had fallen.

But it doesn't matter, nothing matters. Not anymore.

"Why would I go to the funeral?" she speaks firmly, her hard stare making him flinch and register the chilly wind. Tequila. It's in the car.

Funny, how little disappointment he feels, how small the hope was.

He nods, looking to the ground in familiar resignation.

Her hand outstretches towards him with the clipping, and he notices how it wavers in the air, hesitant, as if in a subconscious pull. She takes a step up to him. Her face still tense, but the cold mask less confident.

"I'm flying a lot," he says impulsively, his eyes following another blinking red light that disappears into the darkness of the night.

"What?"

Hasn't she ever thought of it? Going back?

"The gold pass that they gave us… I'm using it," he shrugs. "Every Friday night I fly from L.A.. .." He thinks of the crowded terminals again. Of chance. He's tired, so very tired.

"Tokyo, Singapore… Sydney," memories flood him in a bitter wave. Memories of better times, with her. Recollection of what he once was and where it led them both. Where it led all of them. Self-righteous and arrogant, that's what he was.

Fresh tears blur his vision of the beloved beautiful face before him and merge it with the thumbing ache of what he can't reverse.

"Then I get off, and I… I have a drink, and then I fly home…"

"Why?" is all she offers, more as a statement. For she knows the answer, he's certain of it.

"Because I want it to crash," his fist clenches compulsively. "I don't care about anybody else on board, I just…" he blinks the tears away, looking back at her, retrieving from the images in his head, searching for a glimpse of understanding. "Every little bump.. or turbulence... I actually close my eyes and I _pray_, that I can go back."

Saying it out loud makes him almost chuckle at the irony. He has always considered faith a blessing, one that he was begrudged of.

Now, it's all he has left.

His eyes sting due to the lack of sleep, and his breath is heavy, as he follows a single tear roll down her cheek. Grief and anger. And ever-present, hopeless love for her, which threatens to overwhelm him once more.

Sadness tinges her expression.

"This is not gonna change," she whispers.

So softly. Like she once whispered promises and spells against his skin.

But in response, obsessive despair takes the better of his mind in a flash again, his insides in blazing heat.

"No! I'm _sick_," he snaps, "of lying!" Nearing her face, he searches the green depths for consent. Searches for the truth.

"We made a mistake."

She's shaking her head, but isn't suppressing her tears anymore. They flow, one by one, and her words don't match her eyes. He can see it. She knows that he's right.

"I have to go," Oh, how well he came to know her. She's running already, running from herself. "He's gonna be wondering where I am."

_Him._

Jack feels sick to his stomach, his words that _it'll be fine, everyone's gonna be fine_ now laughing into his face. It's by _his_ choice, _his_ decision, that she's trapped in the illusion of freedom. So far, far away from what they had. From what still stubbornly lives on.

He doesn't even deny it anymore, accepting the quiet emotion beneath all of his anguish and bitterness.

Purest one that he had ever felt.

If there's one thing, one thing that he could draw strength from, one person... -

Impulsively, he grabs her by the shoulders, pulling her closer.

She doesn't flinch and her eyes shut in an instant. Their faces, only inches apart. He feels her exhale, a sweet, dewy breath, as her neck arches back by a fraction.

He should be surprised by her lack of protest, but it comes back to him in a clear, bright blast, how their closeness used to be the most natural thing on Earth.

She's breathing quick, shallow puffs, not looking at him, and his eyes are drawn to her lips. Her soft lips, now tinted with artificial pink.

So close, she's so close; he can smell the powdery scent of her perfume and that sweet, soothing aroma that used to be her pledge of safe haven for him.

Her eyes open and she stares directly into his, hardly blinking. The look is stern, but she's struggling to keep it so. Right behind, hides the longing that matches his and he recognizes it. This is how she looked at him a long time ago, when he'd thought she'd hit him, but instead kissed him.

She wants to kiss him now and is fighting it.

He lets it all cloud his mind, all the longing, all the yearning, his pain, his grief, his ache.

Giving in, he crushes his lips to hers, moving them desperately, urgently, aggressively, using his teeth to nibble on them in haste, then using his tongue to pry them open, licking the flat tasting lipstick off.

It's to rough probably, too harsh, but she kisses him back now, just as hungrily, swallowing him, thrusting her tongue into his mouth, tasting his flesh, alternating fierce exploration of his mouth with tiny, hurried kisses to the outline of his lips, in evident hunger and rush, like she's afraid of her reservations catching up with her and tearing them apart before she has time to get enough.

He can't get enough, he will never be able to.

It makes him both weaker and bolder that she responds so eagerly, makes him venture to slip his arms around her, one hand on her right hip, the other cradling the back of her head.

And it makes his heart sink in comprehension that he'll only miss her more when it's over.

But she still kisses him, breathless, her sighs mingling with his, and he presses her tighter to him, so tight, he can feel every contour of her body, molding so perfectly against his.

They used to revel together in the ideal fit of his hands to her breasts, her hands to his buttocks, her head to his chest, and when they were joined, how it felt as if everything fell into place.

How they could make right out of wrong. Together.

It's been so long, and she's so warm; in a haze, his lips trail kisses down her jaw, down her neck, to find that spot just under her earlobe, which he knows pressing his lips to will cause her back arch and her heart rate quicken.

She lets out a barely audible moan and suddenly a warm, wonderful feeling envelops his heart. She's enjoying this, he's bringing her pleasure, she's not cringing away from him.

"You smell nice…" he whispers into her neck.

Her hands find their way to his hair, and one is now stroking his beard, something she's unfamiliar with.

"You smell like tequila," she replies softly and he chuckles in gloom. Yeah, he can smell it too.

Yet, she makes no move to back away from him, letting his hand flatten out and up on her hip, skimming the bare stripe of skin between her top and jeans.

He brings his face to meet hers, and she's crying. Tears pouring down in silence, in navy streaks, smearing her make-up. Her eyes remain closed when his hand finds its way from the sleek strands of her hair to stroke her wet cheek, when his lips drink the salty moisture off.

He's not even aware of his own tears.

"I miss you, Kate," he breathes against her skin. "I miss you so much -! Every hour of my fucking _useless_ existence –" he's raining kisses down her face, greedily roaming his lips over her cheeks, nose, chin, refusing to disconnect from her. Wanting to prolong this, each second so precious, and sweeter than air to a drowning man. "God, Kate, how I miss you…"

Both of his hands get a tight hold of her hips now, and one slides up under her top, marveling at the texture of her skin, delighted in her warmth, retracing the hollow of her spine, never having forgotten the path.

His mouth latches to the side of her neck and he sees nothing, her hair like a curtain separating him from the worldly chaos.

Just for a little moment.

Just for a one undeserved moment of painful bliss that heavens are granting him.

He's jittery, and not from drugs, when he feels her arch into him instinctively and hears a sob dissolve into a soft moan. She is the intoxication now.

The anger, the grief, the guilt - all merge together somewhere deep within him into a blinding desire for her; her, who used to be his, who used to belong to him in every meaning of the word.

Forcefully, he presses himself to her and feels his cock harden when there's no resistance, when her arms lock around his neck and her breath blows over his earlobe.

"I need you, Kate," he murmurs into her shoulder, "God help me, I need to feel you so bad –" palms cupping her ass and shifting her purposely, to grind into her pelvis.

How much of it is his desperate search to feel alive again, how much to be one with her, how much to reclaim her, to make her his own, to make a point? How much is the dark desire to push her into surrender?

He doesn't question, not now, all thoughts seized by a sudden crimson haze of lust. The tension is driving him crazy.

"We can't, Jack…" she whispers weekly, when he backs her urgently into the hood of her car. "We shouldn't… I have to go…"

"Don't you walk away from me, Kate" he growls in a low tone he barely recognizes as his voice. "I won't let you."

"Jack!" she gasps in surprise, when he pushes her up onto the cold metal surface, grabbing her thighs and parting them to get closer to her. "What are you doing?" he registers a trace of alarm in her voice. Christ, when did he let her fear him?

Panic rising in his heart, he lets go of her legs, pressing his forehead to hers.

"I'm… sorry. I just –" he trails off. "Do you have any idea how much it hurts to see you and not be able to… be with you?" he breaths in earnest, eyes shutting tight to keep the tears from falling.

How pathetic, he thinks.

But to his surprise, she pulls him into her arms, her fingers lacing through his hair and urging his face into the crook of her shoulder. She's trembling, he realizes.

"I know," she says so quietly, like she's afraid of the words. "But we can't, we shouldn't…" she repeats.

"Just this once," he pleads, aware how wretched, how sad he sounds, begging her to let him take her right there on top of a car, in the middle of nowhere, in the chill of the night, plane engines roaring above them.

His fingers trace circles on the small of her back, gently, but strained with his suppressed need that he can't be sure he can curb for much longer.

He captures her earlobe between his teeth.

"Please."

And then he thrusts against her once, a stunned gasp caught down her throat, and he knows. The defensive walls are crumbling, and just as him, she's too feeble to hold back.

"Look me in the eye and say that you don't want this," he breaths into her ear. "Tell me to stop."

She pulls his head back up with both hands, to meet his eyes in the darkness. Hers are wide and glisten with tears, but then she leans up and captures his lips in a kiss so fiery, so passionate, so urgent, as if they were never forced apart, as if only yesterday they woke up entangled with each other to make love again and again, until neither had anything else to give.

He responds with equal intensity, grateful for every second of this, even if she changes her mind, even if she tells him to stop.

Which he fears he won't be able to do.

In a rush, in a rapidly raising frenzy, he duels his tongue with hers, swirling it inside her velvety mouth, sucking on hers like she's his lifeline, and then moving his lips down her throat again.

This time, she throws her head back, exposing the delicate skin to him, and he traces the shape with his tongue, impatiently tugging at her top.

She's not letting go of him, though, her hands sneaking underneath his own t-shirt, and he feels her nails scraping the muscle of his back deliciously, and then digging into them, pulling him closer, closer, until her breasts are squashed against his chest.

"Yes," is all she says.

He knows he should ask if she means it, make sure she won't regret it, if he's not compelling her, but he's too far gone, too deprived, too hungry for her.

_Mine_, a ridiculous persistent thought breaks through. _She used to be mine._

Bending her over, he lays her on top of the hood, his body following, covering hers. He hooks her left knee over his hip and thrusts up again, hard as a rock now, the anticipation making him almost quiver. He has to bite his lip not to rip her pants off violently and take her hard enough for her to never forget who she belongs with.

But she's just the same.

From the corner of his eye, he sees that she's pulling hastily on his jacket and he can feel the death grip of her thighs around his hips.

One hand around her waist, he shrugs the garment off his shoulders and it slides to the ground with a thud. As soon as it's gone, she starts pulling on his shirt. Eyes still tightly shut.

He complies, taking the shirt off and throwing it into the darkness, into the mud.

Immediately, her hands smooth over his chest, and it's like the first time she touched him, the excitement almost too much, his racing heart pumping blood through the system in burning thumps.

Another plane takes off above them, the gust tangling her hair, a few random strands springing back into their natural wavy shape.

Perhaps if he kisses her hard enough, if he holds her close enough, if he claims her body once more, maybe he can shatter all pretence of indifference, maybe he can bring her back. The Kate that she's running away from.

"Kate…" he says, voice hoarse with emotion. "Look at me."

Tears still stream down her face from underneath the closed eyelids, and she shakes her head, pulling him into her body instead.

"No," she mouths.

But he needs her there, with him. Needs her to acknowledge it fully.

"Kate –" he hooks his thumbs at the hem of her t-shirt and firmly pulls it up off her sides, brushing over her breasts, the yielding flesh making his cock twitch, his mind consumed by the image of the tight buds peeking at him invitingly through her delicate bra.

"It's me, it's us," he urges. "Do you remember? I want you to remember –" he says, fingers sneaking past the lace and lifting her left breast out of its cup, then rubbing the heel of his palm against it swiftly. _He_ remembers.

"Jack…" she inhales sharply, arching into his hand. "Don't talk like that…"

"Like what?"

"Like it's final."

The residual aggravation hits him again at her words.

"And isn't it? Don't you want it to be? You call the shots, Kate."

"You've changed, Jack," she sounds wistful, eventually meeting his eyes, hands climbing up his shoulders, up his collarbones, to cup his bearded jaw.

"Have I?" he chuckles bitterly. "So have you."

But he softens, trying to read her darkened irises, aware of the haunted remorseful look she must be seeing now.

He allows himself to get lost in her eyes, drift away into the self-deception that he could reignite the fire in both of them, and for one brief glimpse it's there; for a pause in continuum they are suspended in what could have been, what was.

"I still love you," he speaks, and the spell is broken.

Her response is to kiss him, arms encircling his bare back, bringing an involuntary shiver to his muscle. The kiss soft and mellow until he deepens it, all hope lost.

A violent thunder reverberates through the air, now stuffy and heavy, portending a nearing storm with warm wind.

Are they still two people coming up as one, their souls entangled in each other like their bodies are about to become, or is it all fake, superficial, just a desperate attempt to raise the dead? Chasing the impossible, chasing the past?

He wishes he could cry, or scream, or crush her, but instead kisses her harder, hungrier, swallowing her breath and her whimpers.

Her hand reaches for the waistband of his jeans, undoing the button, but he peels it away to bring it above her head, then the other one. Using his greater strength openly, he pins her to the hood, hovering above her, freezing in the position, groin flush with hers, his erection digging into her center, their chests raising and falling in equally heavy breaths, and he allows himself to look, for a moment of apparent power over her.

Silently, she holds his defiant stare, but then jerks, trying to strain at his hold.

"Easy," he says, almost amused, almost delighted. It seems so long ago that she wanted it like this.

He interlaces their fingers, her hands clutching to his, and lowers his mouth to her bared left nipple, hesitating for a second, only to suck it hard in. The texture so beloved, so thoroughly explored once, it brings both pain to his heart and pleasure to his cock.

Nibbling intently, he gently clamps his teeth on the tight flesh, and then harder, unable to stifle the need, making her hiss violently and then moan, when he soothes her with the flat of his tongue.

She doesn't quite smell the same, he thinks, nuzzling the hollow between her breasts, unrecognizable floral notes invading his nostrils. Sophisticated, civilized scent, so out of place on this once wild woman. His Kate.

A fleeting flare of red aircraft headlights brings out her face just when he looks up.

Mouth parted and eyes trained on him. Several freckles exposed by her tears and his kisses.

His beard must be scratching the supple skin when he slides his face up, to kiss her more. But he's taken by surprise, when she beats him to it, leaning up and capturing his lower lip first.

This is like before, he marvels, reality fading away into the _here and now_ blissful bubble of a dream coming to life. _This is like before._

Detangling his fingers from hers, he outlines the shape of her arms, trailing down them shakily, trying to memorize the sound she makes when he reaches the hollows of her elbows, then armpits.

She makes no attempt to move, only smacks her open palms against the metal when he gets to her breasts and pushes them up together.

Then he finally hears it. His name, breathed out unwittingly. _Jack._

Control has become a worthless concept to him, but he still stops her efforts to undo his jeans.

"Don't."

"Let me touch you," she beckons softly, and yes, he's rendered powerless.

Releasing the frail wrists, he studies her face while she's struggling with the fastening and then the image blurs, when she strokes him, tentatively at first, like the first time, and firmer next, like she already knows how.

This is when he looses it.

In a hurry, in no patience, he straightens up, stumbling slightly, dizzied by desire and alcohol. Harshly, he pulls down the zipper of her pants, sending the button flying and almost rips them down her hips.

The sudden rush of want is overwhelming him, and he shuts his mind down, unwilling to question anymore whatever it's born from, if it's love, if it's rage, if it's a wish for resurrection. He's giving in to the carnality and to her.

With him, she works to peel her left leg out of the garment, leaving it crumpled around the right one; this is enough.

A sound of torn fabric finally cuts through the air, her underwear landing in tatters, in a puddle.

All of his senses centre on the woman before him, he can't even hear the planes anymore, not the nearing thunders. He can't see the lights, the funeral long forgotten. Why she's here.

She's propped up on her elbows, her legs spread wide for him, glistening wetness on display, and she's watching him intently, waiting. Her t-shirt scrunched up above her breasts, one of the nipples bared, one of her thighs bared. The sight makes his cock literally pulsate in synch with his frantic heartbeat, so hard and sensitive, he's not sure if this will last.

The only thing his brain filters in is the familiar heady scent of her sex, hitting him in a fresh wave of rueful desire while he digs his hands in her buttocks, pulling her lower roughly, eliciting the gasp again.

_Jack._

He crushes her to his body, feeling her heat, her fever, and reaches in between them, gliding his fingers through her wet crease, pushing deeper, fondling her clumsily, rubbing her, the velvety folds such an irresistible temptation.

In a moment of clarity, he seeks her most sensitive spot, the little bundle of nerves which he just grew so in love with, pleasing her, delighting her. He waited forever to do it again.

"Jack - !"

_This is like before._

Like before.

She's wriggling against him, holding onto his shoulders, pressing her open mouth to his pulse point, sucking on air raggedly. He knows, he's doing it right. He grew to know her body like his own.

Her beloved small body, all of it.

Shakily, he pulls his fingers out of the wet recess and up, to lick them off, his eyes narrowing, matching hers, both of their breaths coming out in shallow spurts – him, tasting her, and her watching it.

It's like the metallic tang of her desire spreads through him in intense heat, cumulating in his groin, making him painfully hard, like no other woman after her ever could.

_This is what you do to me_, he'd tell her before.

But not tonight.

Tonight is despair. Darkness and sorrow. And unquenchable thirst.

The first lighting tears the black sky up when he bends her back to the hood, kissing her hard on the lips, arms flexed on either side of her. She complies, pulling him closer by the nape of his neck and she breathes into his mouth, hot wet strangled breaths. Decidedly, he takes hold of his hardened length to find her entrance and unify them.

For what may well be their last time.

There's the sweetest completion and the saddest prophecy in the act; when he pushes inside, his eyes bore into hers and she holds his gaze, fighting the instinct. Her beautiful green depths, almost black now. Serious and willing.

They're one again, in silence.

Like the most beautiful jigsaw, like a brilliant mathematical formula, they fall to place together, her limbs wrapping tightly around him, and he pushes deeper, all the way up, hitting her cervix when she pulls her knees up higher.

"Go on," she whispers, to let him know she's ready, but she's so tight; wet hot muscle clenching around him reflexively, that he needs a moment to refocus.

She bucks up against him in encouragement, and he moves. Several measured and thorough strokes, before his urgency, his passion takes over.

This is when she would tell him it was heaven. That he should never stop, never leave her body, and how much she loved him.

Tonight, it's only stifled sounds of pleasure he hears, occasional breathless _Jack_ escaping her mouth, and he clings to it, allowing the faint hope to rekindle. She's with him.

And she's his, for this moment, she's his again. _Mine._

He can't help the ruthless force of his thrusts, the need so demanding, her wetness so inviting. He feels sweat breaking out on his chest and back, and her small hands gliding it over the skin, down to the hollow of his lower back, to underneath the denim, where she squeezes his ass.

Her neck arches when he grabs her buttock to pull her closer, to grind into her clit with each movement, and he knows he must be bruising her, but soft and gentle is out of the question right now.

It's raw, insistent, and it's real.

_Jack._

_Mine._

It's somewhere on the verge of a hard _fuck_, but he devours her, ravishes her with focus of a starved man and with dedication of a man condemned. Wishing to imprint every sensation in his brain. The curve of her hip under his hand, the squirm of her little body underneath his stronger one, the sound of her instinctive moans which she's trying to suppress. The look of her eyes, as they travel all over his face, his upper body, wherever they can reach – in awe, in desire, in revived affection.

"Will you remember, Kate?" He whispers lustily against her lips, in a ghost of a kiss. "Will you remember now? Us? Like this?"

She laces her fingers through his overgrown hair, forcing his head down, to bury hers in the crook of his neck. What she says next, makes his heart skip a beat.

"I've never forgotten."

"Oh Kate," he exhales, but she doesn't let go, stubbornly keeping her face hidden.

"Jack –"

It all goes on too fast, in jagged sighs and wet slaps of skin against skin, in the sporadic glow of red and yellow lights, in the intensifying stormy blows of wind. Elemental.

He's hammering into her, unable to hold back any longer, but aware of her nearing the edge too. The dig of her heels into his butt, the grasp of her fingers on his biceps, the hitch of her breath - . All telling him it's a matter of minutes, of just a few more thrusts.

Speeding up further, he can feel her pooling heat around him, and it unleashes the most primal force in his body, the universe now distilled into the both of them, like they're only ingredients to the big bang which will just create the timeline. A different timeline.

He recognizes the uncontrollable shaking beneath him and lifts his head to meet her eyes, determined to watch the connection complete. The night is so black around them, but he knows, he sees. She doesn't look away this time, hardly blinking, staring up to him as her hips buck up violently in a chase of her climax.

And then it's happening. Her eyes widen, her mouth opens, letting out ferocious round breaths. _Oh, oh, oh. _The hot sleek muscle clasps so tight around him, that he has trouble keeping the rhythm, keeping the pace, to let her ride out every bit of the ecstasy. Clinging to him, she refuses to slow down, and when the sighs become moans, when her nails break the skin of his back, all the tension, all the pain finally dissolve in a red explosion of beautiful bliss that makes him only see her eyes and yes, the encouragement, the acceptance in them, as he lets out a wild groan and empties himself within her in spasms, for the first time in months, in years feeling wholesome and peaceful.

His strained arms give way and he collapses on top of her, completely oblivious to anything but the glorious bliss radiating from his loins in warm waves. He's only barely aware of her arms and legs still cradling him, not letting go.

It's the warm wetness on his shoulder that makes him look up, as his heart slows down reluctantly.

She's crying. Without a sound, tears pour down her temples and the sadness in her eyes is enough to pull his soul back into the dark abyss where hope doesn't even exist.

Never has his conviction that they had made a mistake by leaving been stronger.

Never has he seen clearer how horribly wrong it all turned.

"How did it come to this?" she whispers, her temple pressed to his, as his own tears damp her hair; he doesn't even try to stop them. "How did we come to this?"

He takes in a jagged breath, sweat cooling over his skin.

"It doesn't have to be like this," he says only half-heartedly, careful not to wish for much.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he lets the back of his hand wipe her damp face gently. Even in a moment of break down, she's so beautiful. He thinks of the rosy glow their passion would give her before.

"We can go back, Kate. We _have_ to go back -"

Her lips break into a tiny cheerless smile as her hands reaches to cup his cheek and a soft pad of her thumb carefully grazes away a tear from the dark circle under his eye.

"We were not supposed to leave," he adds, wishing so hard that he could reach the fire that he saw in these green pools just minutes ago.

She sounds defeated when she speaks, the smile turning into a tight line.

"Yes we were."

For a long while, he stays motionless, still buried within her, still enveloped by her welcoming body, eyes locked on her, fearing that if he moves, the last thin thread will be broken, and he'll lose her forever.

But she's already drifting away.

She stirs, and he snaps out of the trance and back into his folly, which reclaims him bit by bit, as he moves off her, the echo of her touch still tingling his skin but fading away, replaced by the bitter misery creeping back up into every corner of his mind.

She's life, and he gave up life a long time ago.

The wind howls around them now, throwing up clouds of dust, but the storm is still far enough. It was really that quick, he thinks, regretting not holding her just a little longer, just a little more. And regretting it happened at all, he should have remembered her beaming, sated smile, not tearful eyes when she was lying in his arms.

He zips his pants up and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. Yeah, the image is there, burnt in. He knows, no amount of liquor will ever erase it.

Reaching for his dirty shirt, he sees her already smoothing hers out, dressed back quickly, in a hurry mirroring his earlier act of removing the layers.

Her eyes stop on his and she's hesitant for a second, as if she wants to say something.

"Will I ever see you again?" he asks instead, quietly.

There's pain in her gaze, as if he stabbed a raw wound, but with a deep breath, she composes herself quickly.

"Goodbye, Jack." And she simply climbs into her car to drive away to her playing cards house.

So this is it.

"We have to go back," he whispers automatically into the air just where she stood.

He knows, it will hurt. Hurt beyond belief, beyond endurance, now that hope has died.

But for now, he just stands there, in the aftershock of the numbing strike and allows the finally coming rain to pour all over him, soak him and wash her smell off of him.

-----------------------------------------------------

_Please, tell me what you think, so I can grant you with better writing!_

_Should I have warned there was no happy ending?_

_Oh, and I apologize it wasn't a steamy-back-seat-sex scene as requested, but somehow I couldn't find a way for the characters to climb in. It would require some thought, and I believe once the haze cleared, they wouldn't do it at all._

_**Chapter #2**__ is a very short EPILOGUE, if you fancy some extra angst. But it doesn't influence chapter #1, only is a different perspective, so you can leave it at that or read on, if you want another level to the story._


	2. Epilogue

_**EPILOGUE**_

_Angst gets piled up in this one._

_-----------------------------------------------_

_-----------------------------------------------_

The paper clipping is crumpled and worn, when she pulls it out of her pocket. Again and again, she reads the text, and even though she memorized each word by now, they always shake her anew.

Out of her car, she stares at a sign board with the address, sitting still for a while. This is here, the funeral home.

Her mind is empty, when she takes the first unsteady step on the street, and then her legs carry her the rest of the way, the buzz of blood in her ears louder and louder with each yard.

The bright room she enters looks oddly like a Sunday school location, sunlight filtered through large windows and the walls painted white. It's empty, save from rows of simple wooden chairs, and an equally simple casket.

Taking a deep breath, she nears it hesitantly, only to be startled by a black man in a suit, showing up in the door before her.

"May I help you?"

She swallows the lump down her throat.

"The ceremony… It's over…" She's late.

"No," the man says in a calm soothing tone that must be his professional attire. "It hasn't started. Nobody showed up."

"Nobody?" she's momentarily taken aback, her brows knitting together.

"Well, except you."

"Are you sure?"

"Absolutely," the man confirms. He studies her for a moment, eyes scanning her silhouette, and she can see questions, why a woman like her would come to the funeral of someone, who nobody else seemed to have shown interest in.

"Are you family or friends?" he asks politely.

She bites back a sob. "Either."

"Should I open the casket for you?"

Shaking her head, she turns down the suggestion. Too scared of what she might see, too scared the image of his beloved face drained of blood will haunt her forever. Like the one of his eyes when she left him that night.

"Take your time," the man says, leaving her alone with her thoughts, with her grief, with the overwhelming guilt.

Unable to control it anymore, she comes up to the wooden box and places both hands on the smooth surface, moving them up and down in slow, gentle strokes, where his head would lie beneath. Her tears fall to the cover with soft clicks and if she thought she couldn't hurt any harder, she's discovering another level of it, where the reality of what happened seeps into her brain.

This is real. She won't see him anymore. Not by choice, but because he's not out there.

Perhaps if she agreed to go with him, if she didn't shatter his hope, if she said just one word, one little word to keep it going. _Maybe._

Bending down, she presses her lips to the hard wood, still remembering the warmth, the passion and sweet comfort of his. She will never forget.

Once again, she reaches for the fateful paper.

_14 November, 2007_

_A man's body was found floating the LA river near the 6__th__ Street Bridge. The man was identified as Dr. Jack Shephard, a world known spinal surgeon, and the last living survivor of Oceanic flight 815, which crashed on a Pacific island 3 years ago, to be found several months after._

_St. Sebastian Hospital spokesman confirmed, Dr. Shephard had been suspended in his practice, due to increasing problems with alcohol and drug abuse. The coroner's examination verified, the death followed a successful suicide attempt of drowning._

_The late Dr. Shephard was 41 and left no family._

_The funeral will__ be held on November 19__th__, in…….._

Which is where she is now.

Last living survivor.

Only no one refers to her as such, for no one knows. What Jack did, what killed him, also ensured her safety. Maybe that's why she's still alive, no one bothers her, not even _him_ anymore. She wonders, what _he_'d do, if he found out.

For all she would like to do now, is go to that 6th Street Bridge and follow Jack into the black water.

But she can't.

Because of Jack.

A violent sob shaking her body, she presses her hand to the swell of her pregnant stomach. It's been seven months, seven long moths since that night, their last. Each day of the past five ones starting with her picking up the phone to dial Jack's number and each time she put it down.

The fate, or the chance, she doesn't know, but it's both hitting her with a void that can never be refilled, and a blessing that she can never be more grateful for.

Was one necessary for the other to happen?

_Non omnis moriar_, she reads the inscription above the door, and takes a step back from the casket, strangely calmed and determined to live on, for that part of him he gave her. She will keep it safe. Their child.

That's what he'd do.

---------------------------------------------------------

_I get awfully sentimental at times. I have no idea what bridge Jack was about to jump off in the finale, just googled some random L.A. bridge (never been there). I left the funeral home details out of it for the same reason: know nothing about L.A., and right know I'm too lazy to look for the name in the epi. :)_

_A lot of stuff is left unresolved, because it would require a theory and extending the fic, and this was not the point here._

_Okay, tell me, tell me, what you think!_


End file.
